whatever ragged scars would be left

It wasn’t the worst moment to come, the night he had to curl up, drugged, beaten, bloody, bearing a strangely youthful wonder for her, as though the past decade hadn’t happened. He was irritated with her, only barely lucid, and alternately muttered obscenities as the rainwater poured down. Where are you? Why are you so late? His phone had been dead for six hours, but he still attempted to dial, still whispered urgently for pickup, still hated the icy rain down his collar with a violence surpassing most any other sensation

The worst moment came somewhere around two am, when lucid was more often and the drugs had worn away and he could feel the cuts on his skin, sluiced clean with cold rain, and he was mentally berating her already for her inability to stitch clean lines — though a part of him felt so strangely affectionate for those ragged scars — when it suddenly occurred to him that she was gone, it was over, and whatever ragged scars would be left, it was only his own hands that would make them.


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